


Bargirl - A Cock-tale

by CentellaWrites



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And Lots of It, Banter, Begging, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Degrading Language, Dirty Talk, Drink Play, Drunk Sex, F/M, Hand Jobs, Making Out, Party, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader is a bartender, Rick Being an Asshole, Slapping, Teasing, Top Rick Sanchez, mild exhibitionism, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CentellaWrites/pseuds/CentellaWrites
Summary: UNFINISHED from around August 2017. To not be continued.You're the bartender at a dingy little college party. You can't help but be aroused by a disgusting old man in a lab coat, who goes where his spirit calls.And he decides where this night will go for you two next..
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Reader
Kudos: 32





	Bargirl - A Cock-tale

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly do not have the energy to finish this long slow burn smut.  
> But I thought I'd post it anyway because I am very proud of the language used and just how hot and steamy it is.
> 
> I hope you enjoy even if it's unfinished!

“Hey sir, how’s it - ?”

“Vodka. Neat. Splash of soda.”

The stranger you’d been eyeing all night already gave you the first impression you’d expected. Short, bitter, unconcerned. And you didn’t care, this was your fourth - fifth? - catering gig this week, and you were going to return home with a healthy paycheck no matter the clientele you encountered. The clientele tonight? Party goers. Not the fancy kind.

You fished a rocks glass from beneath the cupboard at your station, conveniently placed inside the kitchen where drunken strangers bumped butts with you anytime they bent over to get a towel from the bottom drawers, most likely after spilling the Kraken rum you let them tab and not pay for yet. That was your only name-brand item stocked at your mobile bar, complete with DIY kitchen utensils. You took some pride in it, made this business your own. The smack-in-the-face this 70 to 80-year-old skeleton of a customer gave you didn’t help though.

The man was appropriately unimpressed. Scanning the room, filled to the brim with people neither of you cared about, he lifted his lab-coated elbows to the bar counter and rested them so their point faced you. His lazy head bobbed on its side, his bald spot staring you in the face, his bluish-hued, weirdly voluminous, old man hair blocking the view you didn’t wanna see anyway.

As you filled the glass with no-name vodka, and splashed the neat 1.5 oz free-pour with no-name soda, he side-glanced you. The unibrow. The challenging stare. The grimace. He looked like a Looney Tunes character. But no smile.

With a plop, the vodka was on the table. “Rough night?” you pried, failing to mind your own business.

He reached for it with a slender pretty hand. “Rougher than this 7-times-filtered vodka.” He downed it and tapped the rim.

With a raise of your own eyebrow, you reluctantly placed in the glass another healthy pour. “It’s 10-times-filtered. Probably why it went down so easy.”

He was still not looking at you, forcing you to fixate on his large pretty hand, thin-knuckled but veiny, lacing around the liquid as if you mixed it wrong. The condensation on the now-chilled glass chilled you, and you could feel sweat forming at your neck. He coughed, that rough voice you only heard once sounding rougher. “Nah, I’m just an alcoholic. No special powers to your no-name piss water.” He tapped the rim again after another downing of the clear spirit.

Your hand was on your hip in an offended stance. “Seriously? Do you always insult your bartenders?”

“J-just the ones I find hot.”

The jolt through your hand that comment caused made the 1.5 oz pour turn to a 2 oz pour.

He downed it regardless. You rolled your eyes.

“So, new to the game? Bartended for years? How bout school, you got a degree?”

The nerve of him to care when he so obviously didn’t. “Actually, I started at the Bonneville,” you remarked, rather proud of that title.

He still wasn’t looking at you. He’d downed about 5 of your vodkas. You noticed his reddening wet lips as the liquids kept coming. “‘S that why you sound kinda British?”

“Yeah, a bit.” A little flattered, you turned around and cleaned off a glass as he took a more conservative sip.

With a rather large burp, the geriatric gagged, “Why’d you end up doing shitty parties like this one?”

“Why are you here if it’s such a shitty party? You’re obviously swinging that ‘I’m so above it all’ vibe.”

“Hey, I told you. I’m an alcoholic. I just go where my spirit calls.”

_ Spirit?  _ You spat through your lips. “Jesus.”

“You laughed, come on. It was a good pun.” Finally, he turned around. A cheeky smile. He really was a Looney Tunes character. 

Except, you don’t quite recall the last time you were turned on by a Looney Tunes character.

Panties beneath your pantsuit suddenly hotter than usual, you shuffled, blushed, and continued pouring him shots. “H-h-how do you know the Bonneville?” you offered as cover.

It didn’t work. “Listen, you wanna fuck later? It’s not fun anymore to play hard to g*BURP*et.” He sipped his 7th vodka. “Also, I-I-I’m not hard to get. Also, neither are you. Also, that diversion of yours was lame.”

Fuck. A part of you knew it was true. “Fuck you.” You groaned. “You got a knack for pick-up lines, grandpa. You gotta wait for my shift to end if you wanna wetter mouth. You catch my drift?” A part of you was lying to ward off what familiarity you had with old guys flirting with you behind the counter.

“Pfffft, no worries. I can stay alllll night. The question is, can you?” He spun around, looking you straight in the eye. He was enjoying the fuck out of this.

You stared, completely frozen mid-pour. That 8th vodka turned into a 4 oz. He closed in on you, his lips parted, his eyes lidded slightly, his vodka breath so heavy you could hear it over the music.

“Thank youuuu,” he droned as he swiftly snapped backwards, the glass in his hand. The moment passed quicker than it started.

Leaving you stunned. Wanting more.

“Hey, hey … hey, you won’t be offended if I wet my own whistle for a second?”

Cocking an eyebrow, you replied, “What?”

He popped open your average prohibition-era flask and poured the remaining contents into your glass, mixing it with that 4 ounces of vodka. When he reached about ¾ the way up the glass, he stopped, watching your eyes follow the brown syrup-coloured liquid rise and bubble and splash. The two spirits joined rather harshly, the residue of ethanol collecting at the bottom, but smoothly. “Rocks?” he asked you, the stupor misguided for a second, tangenting you from the liquid to his tired but focused eyes.

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered and plopped 2 giant ice cubes from your bucket in his drink. “What is that?”

“Hennessy. Never leave the house without it.” He screwed the cap back on the flask and, again, insultingly swirled his finger in his liquid. Your rocks.

“Ahh, the Jack Daniels of cognac. V.S.?” you ask.

As he chugged it, eyes rolling back in his head, he lifted his thumb.

“Is it  _ really _ X.O.?” You didn’t mean to sound so impressed. But fuck, you hadn’t seen a bottle of that fancy shit since you started these gigs. “Can I -” You stopped, the hand that reached out for him - um, the drink - retracted.

Then he stopped. Out spilled a bit of the cognac from the corner of his lip. “Whoah, Miss Boner-ville. Y-y-y-you really shouldn’t, uh, drink on the job.”

You rolled your eyes, rubbing your elbow.

“Y-yeah, you could get fired from your imaginary boss or something.” He held back a burp in his throat, getting slurry-er by the minute.

You groaned. “You really should take a break with those liquors, you’re shoveling 80 proofs faster than a college student.” Reaching forth your hand again, you begged, “Here, I’ll take the load off for a second.”

“Ohhh, no you don’t,” he teased, laughed, and smirked, all while taking another sip. Because of course he did. “Didn’t they tell you at that shithole never to cut an old drunk off?”

“Consider this the 20s, I’m sure you remember that time well.” You snarled. “Just gimme a taste, pleeease,” you begged. “I wanna try some, it’s been  _ ages _ . Gimme a little break. Haven’t you ever been in the service industry?”

“Hmmm, come to think of it - nope.”

“Just -  _ please _ ?”

He paused. Something was up. He stopped drinking, stopped smiling. Then, slowly, his lids lowered, the corner of his brow raised, his lips parted in a secret smile. “ _ Beg for it _ .”

You gagged on air and blinked. “You - what?”

“You heard me.”

The music was distant noise. Your vision got blurry. Your hands shook.

Those confusing eyes of his scanned the room, darting. As people filed out of the kitchen and ventured elsewhere, he got up, making his way behind your “bar”.

You had your hand on the neck of another vodka for fiddling purposes. The residual liquid from your last pour slipped through your tight fingers, the security blanket failing you. You watched, a statue on the floor, as this stranger fit himself behind you in slow motion, and you wanted him to. Not a soul in the room now. It was just you 2.

With that  _ hand _ , he firmly grasped your fingers off the vodka neck. His other slid and slid and slid, slitting the slit between your legs, feeling the moistness between your pant suit. Your mouth was agape, in both shock and arousal beyond all measure.

He stood a good head-and-a-half over you, could have been 6’5”, but crouched so his lips were at your ear. And for a moment, nothing else existed except for him whispering, “ _ So, you like your cognac extra-aged _ ?”

You would be laughing. If it were any other old creep, you’d be hitting him on the side of the head with your Kraken. But you weren’t, and you certainly weren’t laughing either.

Your hips betrayed your cool and begged into his hand, humping slightly and weak-kneed so his experienced fingers bumped your desperate clit. They grabbed your delicate sex, suddenly, making you even weaker in the knees, and held you in a forceful grasp. “Gonna give yet?” he gritted between his teeth.

One of your hands was white-knuckled against the bar, the other was in his fist, fingers laced and strangled between his. All you could do was give a tentative breath.

“Hmm?” he challenged. He closed-in on your back, and you felt his boner fit to the opening at your pussy. It was hot, the tip pulsating, possibly leaking. You couldn’t imagine him hiding that in the slightest, in the event someone walked in on you 2.

“ _ P-pleease _ ?” you breathed. The head of his cock beneath his slacks rubbed your fabric like it was barely there. You’d gotten him more turned on than you realized, and it was...invigorating. “ _ Please, can I have a sip _ ?”

He grazed his teeth against your earlobe and you could hear him snicker through a smile. “One more time for the people in the back…”

You heard footsteps. Your heart stopped. “ _ Can I please have a sip _ ?” you whispered through gritted teeth.

“Heeyyyy, let’s not rush thisss….” He snarled, teething your earlobe again, pressing that boner to your hearty opening.

“ _ Mister, please… _ ” you begged.

“Say my name, baby...”

“ _ What the fuck is your name _ ?”

“It’s ‘Daddy’,” he growled.

“Nice try.  _ But not now _ .” You were done with this shit.

“You’re right -” He snapped your neck back by your hair, granting from you a wince of pain, and a shout.

“Mother fu - !” you begin, but the pulsation in your pants finished for you, and you moaned softly. “Don’t - do that.”

“If you s*BURP*ay so.” He backed off. But hit your shoulder with something cold. “Here’s your reward.”

You looked at the glass he bumped you with as he stepped away from you and those footsteps from earlier turned into people, entering the kitchen, barely suspicious. The music flooded back to your ears. Was it even worth it?

You sipped the cognac, laced with a bit of vodka, on the rocks, slowly, savoring. Your chest glowed with familiar warmth and full-bodied flavour, knowing your lips touched that very spot this man’s lips were touching.  _ Yes. Yes it was. _

* * * *

Now here you are. Your legs on top of each other. The couch all to yourselves. The bar shut down. The party becoming a distant washing-machine-like noise in your hazy drunkenness.

The man’s name was Rick, you found out. You also found out, through the steady pouring and repouring of liquids from all corners of the world (or...at the very least, your shitty bar), he had the tolerance of a fish. And you wanted to match it, a competition ignited within you, this disgusting old man somehow bringing an extinguished flame back to life.

He slurs on the couch next to you, his shoes casually thrown to the side, the shoulders of his labcoat hanging off and bunching lazily at his elbows. His blue shirt’s gotten noticeably tighter, and you peek at his firm belly, a tiny hairless belly button followed by the faintest remnants of a happy trail. Treasures beneath his trousers like some sort of crew behind a curtain, moving up and down through the hours of the night, often upon watching you take sips of his glass. You’d watch out of the corner of your eye as you slowly slosh around a gin and tonic you’d made for the both of you to share, doused with a hint of lime and dark simple syrup, and you’d see. He’d run a finger down his side, meeting the pockets of his pants, fiddling with his belt buckle ever so slightly, only the fingernail grazing his growing bulge. You’d swish it back, your breath now juniper-heavy, and the cold spirit would drip from your relaxed mouth, down your chin, and he’d lick his wet lips, even teething the bottom one, slowly, sucking on himself.

“So, w-w-what kinda ssstuff you make at the Boner-ville, huh? W-what kinda cocktails ‘sso special there that you can’t make anywhere else?” Another finger laces your shoulder.

You’d taken off your work shirt and are now tank-topped. It’s the end of your shift, and people are filing out, though a few remaining 24-year-olds litter the living room. You answer his slur with a slur of your own. “Shit, man, we’d have specialities. We’d make hot buttered rum with Sailor Jerry’s, some white Russians with Reyka, and like...we had this thing called Pre-Prohibition night where we charged a dollar per drink, and th-they were all, like, classic ones. You know, the classic cocktails, all gin-based?”

“Shit fam, that’s some fancy ass hipster bullshit.” He grabs the gin and tonic and takes a healthy sip, after nudging it to your shoulder mockingly.

“No, Rick, f-ffforreal, it was fantastic. Beefeater and Hendricks, the top shelf stuff. You couldn’t find a better bar in the city of London.”

“Mmm?” he mocks again through his sip. “Sounds to me like the tapioca pearls in your bubble tea are getting thrown in the giant recycling bin instead of being eaten w-w-with the rest of your hipster nonsense.”

“Fffffuck you,” you laugh and nudge his shoulder in response. He nudges yours again, and you know where this is going.

He intertwines your legs, harshly, languidly, like he’s expelling effort just to maintain physical contact. You’re doing a horrible job of hiding your boozy sensuality, and you lean on his shoulder, breathing him in like a candle, closing your eyes to let your other senses heighten slightly. He’s overbearing but somehow fully and consensually respectful, and this combination causes your stomach to flutter, your toes to tighten, your excitement to peak like your blood alcohol content.

Rick takes another long sip of that iced gin and doesn’t swallow. He instead wraps his graceful fingers through your hair, pulling at the follicles like a possessive grip, and invites you into his filled mouth. You’re caught by surprise but only slightly; your stomach ceases, your breath is caught, your dulled senses are on dull fire, and you drink in the gin from his mouth with your own. It spills out of both your mouths and he leans into the kiss hungrily, a carnal overbearing presence, pushing you back against the cushion that provides little to no balance support in this hazy madness. This lean pulls the gin down your chin, dripping along your neck, sliding through the curves of your naked collarbone, hitting that white undershirt of yours, wetting the fabric into translucency. Your erect nipples poke through the double fabric of your bra and the sleeveless top, fully at attention waiting to be stared at, fondled, pulled, poked, kneaded like a damp dough.

Rick takes full-on advantage, like the trained man with years behind him he is. Lacing his tongue with yours, dancing slowly through your mouth, tasting every last bit of the liquid courage between your sets of teeth, his other hand grabs your left tit and squeezes. He’s escalating this, he’s making a show for himself, for you 2. He can get off on the thought of a group of eyes on him alone, with no need for your fingers on his aching cock. You open your eyes and see it twitch beneath his pants like it’s expecting to be caught, pushing against its restraints with the thought of being accused, scrutinized, his every move having eyes on it. Like he’s violating a rule, the rule that is your body.

In your swarming headspace, you’re deaf to the world around you, and live only in this moment, wanting nothing more than to go further. You push on his crown, his matted sweaty hair that retains a certain smoothness, and pull him from your mouth down to your neck. He lays several open-mouthed pecks to your collar, your pulse dancing beneath his teeth, his tongue sliding in stimulating directions. He sucks your skin, biting slowly. You can feel the marks forming, you can taste the satisfaction in hearing you moan his name, and any syllable resembling it.

There’s barely anyone in the room to watch you, but the thought excites you to both your cores. You feel him grit his teeth against your flushed skin, a deep moan piercing through it and vibrating against your humming neck.

You almost hump the thin air in front of you. His voice. His needy, breathy, gritty voice, against your soft skin, contrasting this roughness with smoothness. You make a double-moaned cocktail in response with his, drinking the sounds in like they’re nourishment. You want to hear more, want to drink more.

“Hey, h-hey,” he breathes in your ear.

You don’t want him to stop. “Yeah?”

“A-a-as, uh, much as I wanna cash-in on this whole fuck in front of other people thing, let’s...let’s get a room, huh?”

How could you want to share him with others but also have him all to yourself? That question would never have an answer.

You nod enthusiastically, buzz bubbling beneath your skin, and he smiles out of the corner of his mouth. He grabs your wrist, keeping you in his peripheral vision, running to the nearest room, the hallway spinning. The gin’s spilled on the ground. Luck is in both your favors; the room you reach is a bedroom. A queen-sized bed awaits the other side of the door, so well-kept that you first, wonder how anyone with a house like this kept their bed in such a condition, and second, almost feel a hint of guilt at ruining it.

Almost.

Soon as Rick has the door closed, you’re out of his periphery and now at the forefront of his mind. His eyes. Travelling up and down with fury and predatory pacing. You fall into his arms like a rag doll, like prey caught in his teeth, and he slams you, face first, against the door.

“You into pain, my little tender of bars?” he asks against your ear from behind you, breathless, barely able to control himself.

“A little,” you squeak, equally breathless. Every sensation is heightened, as drunk you takes over, and causes pressure in your cunt you didn’t think was possible.

“What’s your pleasure poison?” In contrast to the intensity of meeting your body with door, he starts caressing down your arms, barely touching the hair.

“S-s-slap me?”

Before you’re even done with the question, he answers. His hand strikes your face and your moan pierces through you like a screech.

“Ffff,  _ baby _ ,” he says through his teeth, pulling your hair back, stroking your neck in some Bela Lugosi-like pose. “Are more slaps gonna make more noises like that?”

“Aim for my ass next time, asshole, and maybe they will,” you indignantly protest with a cheeky smile. “And only,  _ only _ , if I get you sounding the same when I’m sucking your cock.”

“W-w-where the fuck did this come from?” he asks. He knows the answer. “Weak on the streets, freak in the sheets?”

“You know it, you dirty creep.” You’re enjoying this. You’re slurring putty in his hands.

“Hmm, little  _ bitch  _ aren’t you?” he responds with his own smirk, yanking harder on your hair, making your follicles beg.

“Think you can punish me?” you tease.

His grip tightens on your neck. You’re gasping. His breathing accelerates against your ear, soaking it in; your struggles, like an achievement. Instinctively, you grip his wrists, writhing beneath his forceful arms. You can’t see his muscles, he’s too thin, but you can  _ feel _ them.

You can tell he’s done this a million times over; he’s purposefully avoiding your Adam’s apple, grasping the sides of your neck instead, forcing the pump of blood to slow, slower than it already was. The alcohol dancing in your system is forced to stop rushing to your brain. As if your brain wasn’t already drained of blood when he got his hands on you.

You bite his hand when you start seeing stars.

“ACK SHIT,” he responds, though not entirely with malice. He slaps you again for punishment, giving you what you deserve, then lets you catch your breath while licking his lips.

“Sorry, not sorry,” you sing, giggling. You release your arms from his restraints, following the hand you bit, and turn around to face him. “I’ll make it up to you, Rick…” You take his index finger into your mouth, stretching it down, down to the back of your throat. You close your lips around his knuckle, hearing a surprised hitch in his voice, and suck. Suck harder and harder through moans, your own and his. You release him with a pop and take in his middle finger along for the ride. You’re licking up and down, desire present through your eyes, a view almost like you’re between his legs already. You feel like you are. You’re soaking, aching. Spit trails down his wrist as he wraps the rest of his fingers on your chin, and he deepens his breath against you, foreheads touching. His eyes soften, his irreverence now more submissive, dumbfounded almost. His furrowed brow is relaxed and drinking you in a drunken haze. You can feel his heartbeat in his wrist, almost taste it on your tongue.

In the blink of an eye he forces his hand from your mouth and slaps it across your right tit; you respond with a lip bite, swirling your tongue around in your mouth. He lifts you from the ground, his hand beneath your ass holding you upright, and slams you to the door again. He starts making a meal of your neck once more, revisiting his hickeys. You strip off your tank top, then your bra, all while he undoes your pants for you. Only your panties remain; you’re wearing a lazy number, but when soaked, it’s a feast for his eyes.

He’s down to your boobs now, teething, sweating, groaning, pushing you against the door, making it bump up against the frame, so loud it’d be impossible not to hear from the other side. He gingerly locks the door knob, and you share a dark laugh.

You’re running your hands up and down his back, down to his tummy where you unfasten his shirt from his slacks and roll it over him, peeking your hands underneath and rubbing his jutting hip bones. He squeezes your ass as you make your way up his chest to his nipples and thumb them,  _ hard _ . His shirt’s off and your eyes travel along his slender form, chest glistening in the shitty ceiling fan’s light, which flickers against his pearly complexion with the rotation of the blades. You want to taste him so badly, he can feel it coursing through your neck veins beneath his teeth.

Eager to distract him, take him off his course, you lower your head to his chest and slowly lick a line between his pecs, now heaving. His hands lower down your ass to your thighs, barely keeping you up, squeezing and pulling and making more marks on your skin you’re sure to triumphantly cover in the morning. You hazily reach his right nipple with your nose squashed against his skin. It’s as smooth as it looks, surprising considering his age. You begin flicking your tongue subtly against the tiny nip, feeling his sharp intake of breath at the sudden wet sensation. You suck deeply, enjoying it pucker against your tongue while you watch his eyelids flutter and his hips lunge forward into your dripping panties. The covered lips of your pussy slide against the fabric that holds his dick hostage until he starts freeing it, finally.

He rips off his belt with one hand, letting one of your legs hit the floor as you continue popping his nipple in and out of your wet mouth, and he folds it and snaps it against the door. He makes you jump. Then slowly, the leather is riding up the thigh you’re standing on, and collides harshly with your exposed ass. It’s a sharp, severe, fleeting pain, and it makes your flesh sting with excitement. You meet his gaze with an open mouth. With a satisfied sneer, the taste of your pain relished on his tongue, he unravels the belt and wraps it around you, pulling you closer, pushing the tent at his trousers to your tight cunt. It’d be dripping down your leg if the panties weren’t there, but you keep them on. You’re teasing him. You’re teasing yourself.

He’s stretched past a good 8 inches or so, strained against the cloth of his underwear and leaking at the head. You spy the outline of his balls, where the seam begins, traveling up the cock along what appears to be a tiny vein. When his pants hit the floor, his flask follows, a dull thud on the carpet with a small clang of old metal. As he palms your ass, shoves himself further against you, teething over your tongue, he whispers, “It’s empty.”

“Wanna refill?” you propose, eyeing the bottle of Grey Goose vodka on the left dresser next to the bed.

He releases you and his brow bounces up and down as he bites his lip. His fingers spread along the bottle and spider walk across the neck before grabbing it, grabbing you, and throwing you onto the bed. You delightfully squeal in anticipation, moaning against the covers, tossing and turning with your damp panties in your hand.

Now you’re both undressed down to your undergarments. They’re begging for release, hell, the room itself is begging, hot with inebriation. But you prolong it.

Rick spreads your thighs and lets your legs dangle on the side of the sheets, then brings the Goose to his lips. He takes a swig, a bit wobbly, and hands it to you. You take a long sensual sip, letting it drip down your cheeks, down your chin, dribbling on your collar bones, staring him in the eye with pure lust.

“Alright, alright, don’t hog it,  _ bitch _ ,” he snarls, grabbing the bottle back, and lowering his head to your parted legs. His kisses trail down the middle of your breasts, to your tummy, biting lumps of skin and gorgeous folds. Your tummy’s jiggling with giggles, then relaxes into a heavy pleasurable breathing. When he gets to your belly button, he drops a bit of the vodka inside and sucks it out, then swirls his tongue around the soaked skin.

“You like being called a dirty mother fucker?” you ask between breaths.

He moans through gritted teeth. “Call me literally anything you fucking want, make me get what’s coming to me…” He bites the elastic on your panties and finally pushes them aside to take a peek at a pink lip.

“You’re a dirty old man, you-you - creep, bouncing behind me like that while I’m at work...” You’re absolutely breathless, barely keeping a straight headspace.

He lowers his head to your moistness. “Y-you enjoyed every goddamn second of it, you little slut.”

A roll of his tongue against your inner labia is all you need for your thighs to tremble.

“You like it when Daddy’s sucking that sweet clit of yours?”

You can’t answer with words. All you want is his face buried in you.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He slaps your thigh again, he’s prolonging this, making you earn it. Like that sip of Hennessy. “You wanna answer me when I’m talking to you?”

“ _ Yes, Rick, yes _ ,” you whisper, tingling pain like a galaxy beneath your eyelids. “ _ Just do it. _ ” You pull his head against your wetness, his hair between your knuckles and in your fingernails.

He obeys. Dear god, does he obey.

With a swish your panties are gone and his face is buried into you. You enter a different dimension, unable to control how loud you are when he slowly slides his sordid tongue to your slit with meticulous extraction. He circles that sweet button at the head of your pussy, pressing that tongue to it, putting needed pressure to your flesh. You’re so desperate, already so cringingly ready, you push his face over and over into your slippery cunt as if he was purely a vibrator you were using. But his breathy voice, just as desperate against your bottom half, is like sweet music, like the hottest of buttons; you can barely see, only feel. He’s making you feel like he’s enjoying his favourite meal, so into you it’s almost hypnotizing. You spy his half-lidded eyes, his blown-out pupils so full of lust you can barely see the colour of his irises, and rub his forehead, strangle his hair. You push him deeper down your pussy and he darts his tongue to the lining of your opening, stretching it to its already maxed arousal. He tongue fucks you and you scream; you’re in heaven, drunk sensation buzzing about your skin like you’ve been electrocuted.

When you’re squirming so much he can barely keep his course, he releases you and takes a nice long look at your loose lips. He licks his wet mouth, bites his bottom lip again, and says, “Y-You got one hot pussy, baby.” He’s smiling, looking up at you with a dark smirk. “ _ It’s not gonna look so good when I’m done with it. _ ”

Breathing shallow between your teeth, you beg, your submissive side surfacing, “Can I first get a taste of that thick cock of yours, Daddy?”

He says nothing as he grabs your neck and frees himself. With the skill of someone who’s built bombs while blacked out, he unwraps the condom from the back of his pants and slips his cock into it; it’s almost pulsating with anticipation, ready to use your mouth like a fleshlight. But he’s submitting to you before your very eyes as he rubs his left nut, his loose balls getting tighter just by looking at you. A vein pushes through the thin layer of the rubber, and when you wrap your fingers around that thick shaft, you feel a heartbeat.

“No teeth?” you make sure before getting started; you’re salivating already.

“Maybe, uh...a little…” A first wave of nerves, from the guy who never has to ask what he wants but rather gets it. You wonder if he even knows what he wants.

You’ll give it to him no matter what.

“Mmm mm, I like a man who can take the teeth.” You lick your lips and, sitting up, fit your mouth over his uncut condom-covered head.

It’s a struggle to get your mouth around his thickness. Pushing him further down your throat, you hear a small moan, almost meek, feeble. You keep him in there, sliding your tongue around the head, causing his breath to quicken. He’s not scowling anymore and his knees weaken. His fingers slowly caress your ear and your hair, nothing like the roughness from before. They’re begging you with a whimpering submission.

You slide him out of your mouth and tongue that fat head, darting your salivating muscle against the pinnacle of his pleasure center and he responds by pulling your hair again, his favourite move of the night. He moans with every exhale as you pop that fucking cock up and down past your lips, past the slightly gliding teeth, your hand at the base getting the rest of the inches you can’t fit down your throat.

Barely able to contain himself, at your mercy, he grabs you by the ears and starts humping into you, fucking your mouth, further than you can take but not further than you want. You're squeezing your free hand into a fist to make this more tolerable; you want to fit every inch he wants into your desperate orifice.

.................................................

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry to leave it unfinished. But feel free to fill in the blanks yourself as to what happens next ;) It was just gonna be more and more intense foreplay with eventual fucking.
> 
> And hey if you like this smut, maybe you'll be into reading my [Rick and Lucy saga](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782028), a set of old stories involving my ex-wife character for him. AND [my other Rick/Reader fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672535)


End file.
